Honeycomb
by teabizarre
Summary: Sometimes John dreams about a world beneath this one.


i.

Sometimes John dreams about a world beneath this one.

A world threaded through ours and bleeding out around the sutures.

A world where the sand is always bloody and the sun is always hot and there is burning, constant burning.

A world filled with absence and hatred and revenge.

Sometimes John dreams about a world before this one.

A world locked behind clouds, and one last glimpse of a face so beautiful it cannot be expressed in anything but worship.

A world he has been barred from.

Sometimes John dreams that one of these worlds wants him back.

Sometimes John dreams that they are looking for him.

And sometimes John dreams that they find him.

* * *

><p>If it had been anything but human flesh and human bone and human blood, it would have been a masterpiece.<p>

The room is dark and subterranean. There is a smell like algae in the air, tempered by a whiff of blood and something acrid, something like rotten eggs. It's very cold. They're in London's guts and John's first thought, as he steps carefully after Sherlock down the ladder, is that he'll have to take a shower and change his clothes before he goes out on his date.

Then he follows Sherlock into the chamber with the crucifix and realises that any plans he had have just been cancelled.

The construction is vast and meticulous. It is at least three meters high—as tall as the wet ceiling allows. John wonders if the killer would have gone higher had the room been bigger, then shudders because he knows the answer to that question. The police are still in the process of setting up; as John watches, coming to a halt beside Sherlock, spotlights are flicked on and, piece by macabre piece, the details are revealed.

'At least seven bodies, judging by the craniums,' Sherlock says after a moment of observation, eyes ticking back and forth. Immediately he is off—spinning around the room, swooping into dark corners and harassing crime scene technicians for any perceived instances of tardiness, stupidity, squeamishness. Just in time for Lestrade to walk in, scowl at him, and then scowl at John for not scowling at Sherlock.

John shrugs it off and, being careful about it, sidles closer to the cross.

It has been made using mostly bones, but not all of them have been completely stripped of flesh. They _have_ been doused in something—judging by the smell, John thinks it is probably bleach—and cleaned, which shows up the artistically dripped blood all the better. It is all bone white and rust red, darkening to black where the blood is thickest, tackiest.

'Wire,' Sherlock notes, appearing suddenly and pressing his face almost right up to the crossbeam. He indicates fine silver lines John had not noticed, but are apparently holding the entire thing up. 'And' (he leans so close that for a moment John is worried he'll stick his nose right in) 'glue.'

He straightens pensively then, with a lazy crawl of eyebrows, declares it 'Dull!' and strides off.

'Wait, what?' John and Lestrade (who has been waiting, cross-armed, behind them) demand simultaneously.

'Dull!' Sherlock repeats, nose wrinkled unhappily, determinedly ignoring everyone as he makes a beeline for the exit.

'A crucifix constructed from corpses is dull?!' Sally Donovan is just in time to be mercilessly outraged.

Sherlock gives a great snort, spinning around to better sneer at her. 'Some religious nut with access to cadavers and cavernous rooms. Probably schizophrenic, unlikely to be actually dangerous. Now if one of these' (he jabs a thumb in the direction of the cross) 'constructed from murder victim turns up, feel free to text me. Come along, John.'

'That's it?' Lestrade throws himself between Sherlock and the exit. 'How can you be sure they're cadavers? We haven't even started taking it down!'

Sherlock gives him a withering look that is its own answer and resumes his dramatic exit.

'Can't you give me anything? God, the press are going to have a field day,' he whines, looking worriedly at the towering tangle of limbs. John can just as easily see his point as he can envision the headlines. The word 'occult' would get thrown around a lot; there would be panic; kids would be kept from school, old cases revisited, fringe lunatics given the spotlight.

John feels uneasy. He shoots the crucifix a look as Lestrade spins away, his hands in his hair, muttering to himself and barking instructions at his team.

'John,' Sherlock repeats. He's paused by the ladder, his hands in his coat pockets. He's frowning.

'Yeah. Okay.' John clears his throat and trots after his friend, trying to ignore the urge to glance back one last time.

It is later that night, London rain quiet and the short arm of the clock stuck in the early morning hours, that John, sleepless, identifies the source of his unease.

It has been gnawing at him ever since the abandoned building dropped away in the rearview mirror of the cab as they left the crime scene, Sherlock tapping away on his mobile next to him, completely unconcerned.

It isn't the bodies or the sacrilege. It isn't the smell or even the motive. What bothers John is something he can't explain, and wouldn't want to, not to someone like Sherlock.

It's a feeling. It's a dream and it's a nightmare.

It's an instinct.

It's a memory.

It's just the beginning.

* * *

><p>It is a fortnight later when John, yawning, comes downstairs to find Sherlock deeply engrossed in a book he startles to realise is a Bible.<p>

'Uhm,' John says, and decides he'd better make tea.

'The Crucifixion is depicted in all four Gospels,' Sherlock says, like he's answering a question. He follows John into the kitchen. 'The accounts differ, of course, but the gist is the same: a man is tried, tortured, crucified, dies, and is supposedly resurrected several days later.'

'Yes,' John says, because his lapsed faith has at least the basics covered.

'The crucifix itself was an ancient Roman torture device, devised to break both body and spirit. Used primarily against slaves and rebels. Enemies of the empire; upstarts and revolutionaries.'

'Yeah, and?' John asks without looking up, prodding at the teabags with a spoon.

'It doesn't make any sense.'

'I suppose that's where the faith part kicks in,' John notes, now meting out the last of the milk between their two cups.

'What?' Sherlocks asks, confused, then waves his hand irritably and says, 'No. I meant the cadaver crucifix. There are some parallels, obviously, but it's all wrong. What's he trying to say?'

_Now_ John notices the glossy crime scene photographs Sherlock has brought along with his Bible.

'What changed?' he asks, pushing Sherlock's cup over to his side of the kitchen table and starting on the toast.

'The blood.' Sherlock is distracted. He's still in his pajamas and his favourite dressing gown, his face scrunched up thoughtfully as he taps away at his mobile. His hair is in disarray.

'Oh?' John finds that his gut is unpleasantly clenched; like he's waiting for the anvil to drop.

'It doesn't match any of the cadavers. Whoever bled out wasn't in that crucifix.'

'But you think they will be on the next one?'

Sherlock beams at John. 'Yes. This has just got much more interesting, don't you think?'

John sighs, doling out an even spread of butter on four slices of toast before shoving the plate onto the table. 'Not the exact word I'd use.'

Sherlock's face wrinkles in displeasure. 'You're not going to lecture me about saying things like that about crime scenes again, are you? Clearly that ship has sailed, John.'

John snorts. 'It just seems...' He trails off, hoping Sherlock will not have noticed his reluctance to finish the sentence.

'Seems what?' Sherlock asks immediately.

'Ominous,' John decides, self-consciously. He can feel his cheeks heat up.

'Ominous?' Sherlock repeats.

'Yes, well.' John chews his toast, but Sherlock keeps staring at him. 'What's it for?' he asks, when Sherlock refuses to relent, narrowing his eyes at John's crumby bottom lip. 'They've built a crucifix. Now you say they've probably crucified someone. What are they trying to...to _atone_ for, with blood and bones?'

_What manner of sin?_ he thinks, but doesn't say it, because it sounds worryingly Catholic.

'Maybe it isn't atonement they're after,' Sherlock says, rubbing thoughtfully at his top lip.

John swallows his toast. 'Sacrifice,' he realises, his mouth dry.

Sherlock goes 'Hmmm'. Then he plucks a piece of the toast from the table and hurries from the room, tea in one hand, mobile in the other, the toast in his mouth.

John doesn't follow. He feels alienated from his breakfast, the table it is on, the chair he is sitting in, the dull gleam of the counters, the cluttered pockets of utensils, the sibilant hum of the refrigerator. The last dribble of his tea dries in the bottom of his cup. John's heart is beating very fast.

He can taste sand in the corners of his mouth.

There had been a box in Afghanistan.

Rectangular. Twelve inches by ten. Heavy, wooden. A casket with invisible hinges. Unadorned—plain. And old, very old.

It was night when they found it. He'd often wondered if things would have been different had they opened it during the daytime; or had they not opened it at all. If they had left it in the ruins. If they had kicked sand over it and pushed it down with rocks.

John doesn't know why he should think of it now.

John doesn't know why he hasn't thought of it sooner.

Sometimes John dreams of a box.

* * *

><p>Two days later there is a victim.<p>

He is found in a warehouse near the Thames, in a structure crackling with rust. Police tape _ticker tickers_ in the wind when John and Sherlock come striding in. Sherlock holds the tape up for John, intrigued enough that he entirely ignores Sally Donovan's tear-red eyes and the guilty looks Anderson pass her. The air is heavy with decomposition and salt.

The man lies on a narrow table. His arms are spread open, away from his body. Both his wrists have been punctured, the wounds deep and angry. His legs are crossed at the ankles and bear the same damage as his wrists. His eyes are closed. He looks nothing like Jesus.

He _does_ look like John.

John knows the exact moment that Sherlock notes the similarity: his eyes narrow, his gaze cuts to John, his lips part ever so slightly. John himself is resigned. He hasn't slept well in two days. His dreams now are incessant, insistent. He has been waiting for this.

He has been found.

The victim is in his early thirties. He is about the same height John is (short). His hair is darker and longer, but his nose is as upturned, his lips are as thin, his forehead as creased. He is dressed casually. John recognises a Manchester United shirt.

'The murderer had buckets here,' Sherlock says, after a moment. He moves to indicate a scuff beneath one of the split wrists, on the dull concrete flooring. His shoes echo as he walks. 'No indication of a struggle and no restraints—drugged, then. We'll need to analyse the blood samples again...'

But John is leaving, walking his rapid military walk, ignoring Lestrade's uncertain 'All right?' and Sally Donovan's cross-armed gloat. It is dark outside and the air is cold. He sips in careful mouthfuls and keeps walking until he is free of the milling police and the spatter of red/blue/red/blue their cars emit.

'He's younger than you by six years,' Sherlock says from behind him. His hands are pocketed in his coat. He's uncertain and uncomfortable: he stands too still, looks too hard. John had not heard Sherlock follow him, but turning now to face him he isn't surprised that he did. 'Irish. Older siblings, all brothers, worked in construction. Had a steady girlfriend but was cheating on her fairly regularly. Preferred football to rugby, obviously-'

'And?' To John's own surprise, his voice sounds strangled.

Sherlock pauses. 'He's dissimilar to you in every respect except the physical. Nothing to get worked up over.'

Sherlock shifts feet, stilted in every possible way.

John closes his eyes. There was a box in Afghanistan—he does not say. We opened it—he does not say. Something came out when we did—he does not say.

What he says is, 'It's not a coincidence.'

Sherlock frowns, sceptical. 'You think it has something to do with you?'

No. John thinks it has something to do with what he _is_.

(The box had questions; the box had answers.)

'When is it ever about me?' That is out before John can stop it and once it is, he wonders why he's never said it before. Sherlock's neck snaps to attention at John's tone. 'It's obviously some kind of set-up.' John is reeling. 'Another puzzle. Another game.'

An invitation—John doesn't say.

Come back—John doesn't say.


End file.
